


Sink through your skin to your blood cells

by vertigo



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: BDSM, Boot Worship, Dom/sub, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Masochism, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-08 00:00:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8821486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vertigo/pseuds/vertigo
Summary: There’s a voice laughing at him, and he can see in his mind’s eye the pointed finger rubbing against every scar and bruise. Worthless worthless worthless, it laughs and shrieks, mocking him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Sunday night porn is better than Sunday night football, especially when your team sucks.
> 
> And I'd like to thank BlueFlameBird for holding my hand while I wrote this <3

Tim stumbled into the unfamiliar safehouse through a bobby trapped window that almost got the end of his cape, leaving half a tear and some ember burning— he was tired, his whole body was heavy with exhaustion and his mind was running twelve miles per second. Things he could have done, things he should have done, things he did, things he has to do. It’s a cacophony of voices inside his head _screaming_ at him. Some of them even mock him—the failure, the replacement, the worthless son who’s good for nothing but the public image of another pitiful orphaned kid.

 

He feels like screaming at them, screaming at the top of the Wayne Tower that he is worth it—that he clawed, fought and fucked his way to where he is. That during some nights his muscles ached from the exertion of trying to be like Dick or Jason and his brain hurt from overthinking and he laid on his bed wide awake, feeling the pull of every muscles in his body reminding him that nothing comes for free. He is part of the family, he’s worth of everything he’s ever conquered. Red Robin heard the rustle of the pages being turned in the living room as he dusted his cape—Jason didn’t even move from his spot, flicking the yellowed pages of Moby Dick like nothing happened. That’s the best thing about Jason, he’s able to pick the signs of his wavering mind and body.

 

With heavy footsteps, he approaches the man, still dressed in his full Red Hood regalia, except for the shiny helmet resting peacefully on his lap. Tim shuffles, squaring his shoulders in order to appear braver than he feels, but melts when Jason—no, Red Hood, raises his kris and runs it softly over the Kevlar covering his thigh. A shudder rocks his body as the man sitting comfortably in an old armchair runs the pointed end of the metal over his armor, snapping some threads and not raising his eyes to acknowledge him (maybe he did, but it’s impossible to tell with the mask secured firmly over his eyes, white visor staring instead of baby blues). Tim is deep in thought, observing how his gloved finger runs through the yellowed pages, following the sentences he might be reading, how his mouth twitches ever so subtly when he reads about Ahab’s story and how elegant Jason is, even when doing the smallest of the tasks. “Take a shower and come back to me.” He breathes a softly ‘yes sir’, feeling Jason tap the flat part of the blade as a signal for him to move.

 

On nights like these, there’s no need to disobey the man devouring a book like he didn’t existed in the same space as him. Tim moves silently this time, dragging his feet to a tiny bathroom and removing all of his costume—he folds it delicately, knowing how Jason hates his mess, and sets the over the sink when he moves into the shower and relaxes under the cold spray of water. The pipes are rattling, trying to come up with some heat, but he prefers the shock of the cold water removing them grim and dirt from Gotham’s street. With a generic bar of soap, Tim removes the excess of sweat and blood, observing the yellowed and purplish bruises blossoming over his side. He rubs himself clean and towels his body when he’s done with a clinical eye—the voices are mocking him again, comparing his small frame to Jason’s powerful body or Dick’s graceful muscles.

 

Tim feels disgusted with himself, with how small and useless he is when compared to his brothers. There’s a voice laughing at him, and he can see in his mind’s eye the pointed finger rubbing against every scar and bruise. _Worthless worthless worthless_ , it laughs and shrieks, mocking him. He runs his fingers through his damp hair, leaving the bathroom while still naked and listening the shrieking getting louder as he set foot on the living room.

 

Jason is still reading his book, caressing its page as if it was something precious—there’s a bubble of jealousy forming in his throat and he swallows it, getting down to his knees beside the old chair and looking forward. Over the shrieking, there’s the muffled sound of creaking leather as Red Hood crosses his leg and reaches out for him, running still gloved fingers through his hair.

 

He doesn’t say a word, just keeps flicking through the pages while Tim hears the voices dimming then coming back—and Red Hood looks like he knows when they come back, since his fingers tighten up on the raven locks of his hair, pulling his head straight again. The younger boy fixes his stare on the room—dissecting it while leaving them be (just for tonight, that is not his battle to fight). The safehouse is a smaller one, located at the outskirts of the Narrows, tidy and with minimal furniture that has seen better days. Nothing that stands underneath the perpetual neon glow that embraces Gotham screams something personal. It’s just a place to rest his body and his guns.

 

The dissection goes on as his own fingers taps his naked thigh, creating a tempo for the voices while he drums against a fresh spot of recently healed skin. Little by little they’re receding, being replaced with a softer and much louder voice _He adores you, you adore him, you belong on your knees beside him, he’s your world, you are his, you are safe beside him. You are_ his _Robin._ A moan erupts from his lips as the familiar sensation of Jason’s fingers gliding through his hair anchors him to that reality and his whole body shakes with the need to show how much he appreciates whatever he’s done to stop the voices.

 

For the first time, he moves his eyes from the spots he’s been looking, focusing on Red Hood’s chiseled jaw, the five o’clock stubble that decorates his face makes him look older, the jacket still wrapped in his body creates the illusion of his broad shoulders being even bigger. His eyes stop when the arms of the comfortable chair hides the powerful thighs, and surely the gun holsters and his guns are snuggled against the powerful muscles there. Tim’s vision picks back Red Hood’s form when he meets the powerful calves then the boots on his feet. Pristine clean despite Red Hood’s penchant for killing and working in the dirtiest parts of Gotham.

 

He shivers with the idea forming in his head while his knees move at their own accord, carrying his body through the few inches from his spot to Red Hood’s front where he bows and kisses the tip of the boot planted firmly on the floor. There’s a slight change in Jason’s breath, the only acknowledge he gets as he keeps on kissing the perfectly kept leather—that’s the way he wishes to show how grateful he is for the man who owns him and keeps the demons at bay. Tim crosses his hands behind his scarred back and leans in even more, nuzzling the leather and taking in the smell that _screams_ Red Hood. He is moaning lowly at the back of his throat as his tongue comes out for the first lap against the spotless leather—and Tim is unable to stop himself from lavishing the combat boot with attention.

 

There are moans, whimpers and pleas escaping his mouth while he licks it until his tongue tastes like leather and Gotham. Above him, Jason uncrosses and crosses his legs, letting him give his full attention to the other boot, and only when Tim feels the tears of joy prickling the edge of his eyes, he does look up. The book is forgotten in Red Hood’s hands, and he’s breathing deeply, making his chest move forcefully—for sure those gunmetal eyes are glued to him, but there’s no way of knowing for sure since the blank visors stare back at him. “My Robin.” Red Hood murmurs and Tim openly _whimpers_ and trembles on his knees, feeling the goosebumps raise his flesh at the raspy sound of _his_ voice. His hands itch for reaching forward, touch his master, but he can’t, Red Hood didn’t command him to—he didn’t command for him to start it or stop it or even look up, and by the way that Jason closes his book and sets it aside, there’s a punishing for his mistakes coming up. “Where is your grappling gun, my Robin?”

 

Tim shivered and his lips fell open, but no words tumbled out—he didn’t have the permission to speak, so his eyes roamed again, pointing to the direction of the bathroom. Red Hood hums, letting the silence hang for a minute like he always does when he’s entertaining a new idea. “Go get it for me. You can stand up.” The boy scrambles to get up, unsteady like a newborn fawn and Jason laughs—the kind of cruel and delicious laughter that sounds like molasses and blood dripping over the sound. When he came back, Jason was already up, checking his own boots with the kind of reverence that rattled Tim’s bones.

 

Silently he presents the gadget to the man in front of him while taking in the all-powerful figure of Red Hood—it made him feel smaller in a good way, safer knowing that he is there, that his guns are loaded and ready to kill those voices or anyone who tries to touch him. “Get on the chair. On your knees, back facing me, Robin.”

 

The boy wonder nods, getting where Red Hood wants him and setting his knees apart, presenting himself to that man, when he hears the unmistakable whir of the gun being fired, the hook hitting the chipped wallpaper and then the floor. More silence follows as Red Hood does whatever he wants with the long cord lying on the floor. “What’s your safeword, Robin?”

 

“Crowbar.” He gets a nod in return and then nothing—for a minute that seemed like hours until he feels the first strike of the cord against his back. Tim doesn’t hold back the scream that comes laced with a moan. Red Hood had coiled the cord of his grapple gun, creating a whip with three loops that kisses his skin again before he can breathe. For sure there are already six angry lines raised over the multitude of scars and more are coming, each hit feels like a blessing while he trembles and moans for his master.

 

“Good bird…” Another lash against his back, they’re growing in intensity, hitting his spine, his arms, his ass, his thighs—come morning he won’t be able to walk without feeling the pain, he will remember for weeks the weight of Red Hood’s actions. And the demons inside his head will feel it too, they’ll know that Red Hood owns him and whatever debts they want to collect, they’ll have to go through that man first. “My Robin…” Jason whispers reverently, between the blows, hitting the same spots until he’s satisfied—because now there are angry red lines crisscrossing his back, hiding the constellation of scars, and some of them are bleeding, painting arbitrary warm drawings that trickles down his back. “My beautiful bird…” Red Hood speaks again, stopping the brutal assault on his back to run the rough gloves over the canvas of reds and pinks that he painted on his back.

 

Tim only knows that he’s crying when a thumb swipes over his cheekbone, collecting the traitorous drops—and now he can hear the sound of his own voice moaning and sobbing, a mix of pleasure, pain and devotion lacing each sound. “My Robin, my own bird.” He repeats it like a mantra, rattling his bones and exposing Tim for what he is in that moment _his his his his his his_  the voice screams deliriously on his head, travels through his ribcage until it bubbles from his mouth, spilling like prayers and echoing in the small room. “Mine, mine, mine.” Red Hood counters with a laughter, running his palms flat over his back, spreading the mess over it, coating _his_ Robin in _their_ color.

 

The hand keeps dragging over his skin, reaching his ass and grabbing it until Tim knows that there will be pretty marks in the shape of Red Hood’s fingers decorating him. There’s a shift in the air as the sound of padded knees hitting the floor reaches the Robin’s ears and Red Hood’s breaths graze the raised flesh of his back. “Keep yourself open for me, Robin.” Tim moans again, reaching out with shaky hands for his own ass as he spreads himself open, not waiting much time before a tongue touches his hole, lapping it delicately and pulling more moans out of his mouth. Red Hood is carefully flicking the wet muscle against the quivering hole as Tim bows down and sinks his teeth on the leather of the chair, keeping in all the noises that are not moans or whimpers out of Red Hood’s ears. The vigilante promptly clucks his tongue and digs his thumbs where Tim’s thighs meet his ass. “You can speak, Robin. I want to hear you.”

 

Tim sobs, letting go of the fabric to openly moan when Jason went back to pressing the tip of his tongue against his hole. “Ahhh…” He closes his eyes, long fingers digging and breaking the leather from the chair. “Red Hood, please…” Tim sobs once more, raising his ass and placing his forehead on the back of the chair. “Please, please, please. I—“ The moans are constantly breaking his words while Red Hood keeps licking him, filling his own mouth with Tim’s taste. “Y-yours,” He sobs again as the man behind him wrapped his longs digits around his thighs. “M-make me yours, p-lease.”

 

When Red Hood pulls away he feels a little lost, but he’s never too far, always keeping him grounded, kissing his bloodied back—that made a new set of shivers run down his spine. Jason finally thrusted the bottle of lube into one of Tim’s hand, a smile decorating his words. “Prepare yourself.” Tim quickly grabbed the bottle, coating two of his fingers with lube and pressing both of them inside with a keen. “That’s it,” he closed his eyes, letting himself drown in the sound of Jason’s praises and his commands _deeper, faster, crook them, that’s it, good bird._ Tim moaned, feeling the weight of Red Hood’s stare at him, his fingers moving as he commanded, faster, spreading open, teasing the rim of his muscles before he dived in again.

 

In the back of his mind the voice is back whispering violently about how he’s pathetic, he’s just a toy in Jason’s hand—how absurd it is that he’s bowing down to the man who, more than once, tried to kill him. It gets louder as the seconds tick _pathetic, worthless, whore, that’s what you are, a whore, nothing but a whore spreading your legs and letting him do as he pleases._ His fingers falter halfway into his body as a sob tears his way through his lips, the tears coming back with full force before Red Hood’s bare digits take a hold of his hips and he presses his chest against Tim’s wounded back, the Kevlar ripping the blood clots that had formed in the meantime. “Come back to me, Robin. Don’t let them have you, you are mine.” He whispers directly into the shell of his ear, pressing sharp teeth over the meaty lobe. “My Robin.” Tim moans once more when Jason pulls his fingers away, replacing it with the press of the head of his cock against the ring muscles. He pushes the cockhead far too slowly, forcing him to relax and just accept, take in the smooth sliding of Jason’s cock inside him until he bottoms out.

 

For a moment the world stops spinning and Tim is trembling once again, caged between Red Hood’s body and the back of the chair. It feels like his legs are going to give in soon enough and if it wasn’t for the calloused hands dragging through his ribs and pressing into the bruises the night gave him, he would fall. He uses those seconds to pay attention to Red Hood, breathing heavily against his ear—the man is still fully clothed, the zipper from his pants are biting into the soft skin of his ass, the gun holster is pressed firmly against his thighs and the ups and downs from Red Hood’s chests are ripping his wounds again, making the air smell like sex and copper. _He owns you_ , says the small voice in the back of his head.

 

Tim practically mewls when one large calloused hand wraps itself around his cock, giving a slow but a firm stroke. “Look at you,”  Red Hood all but breathes in his ear, his voice thick and reverent as he gathers the pre-cum that gathered at his cockhead. “Look down, Robin. Look how wet you are.” Tim forces himself to look down and sees the translucent smear his pre-cum left on the back of the chair—when did that happen? When did he get hard? The Robin closes his eyes, cataloging every minute of their encounter. He faintly remembers his cock getting hard while his tongue was roaming the leather of Red Hood’s boots, he also has the ghost of the feeling of his cock weeping while the man repeatedly ran down the whip on his back.

 

The thing is, Red Hood got him so focused on what he wanted Tim to feel that he just tuned out every other response of his body that wasn’t required by him. And now, with the older man dragging his closed fist over his erection and pressing his thumb on the sensitive nerves under the head of his cock he feels how much everything affected him. Unconsciously, Tim clenches his ass, ripping the first moan from Red Hood’s lips. “That’s it, my Robin.” He bites the shell of his ear while pulling out almost all the way and slamming right back, forcing Tim to arch his back and moan so loud he’s sure the whole neighborhood can hear him. “Moan for me, I want you to scream when you come. Do you want that?” Tim nods frantically, and Red Hood stops talking in favor of creating a necklace of bruises with his mouth over the skin of Tim’s neck while he thrusts, making the chair groan and scrape against the floor.

 

He is unable to do anything but babble when Red Hood keeps on thrusting violently, rubbing his prostrate and making him moan as loud as he can, nothing but a string of curses and that man’s name leaving his lips. Red Hood tightens the fist around his cock, gathering the pre-cum that coats his fingers to make the friction easier. Tim closes his eyes, feeling the heat curling in his stomach as Jason moans flood his ears. “Be a good boy, my Robin. Come for me.” He lets out a scream, feeling Jason pressing his prostate over and over again while he comes all over the chair and in Red Hood’s hand. His orgasm keeps on going as his cock twitches and Red Hood keeps pounding him, making his oversensitive body twitch in the older man’s hand.

 

_Look at you, he commands you, he owns you, Robin._

 

Tim moans softly, barely holding on as Red Hood keeps thrusting into his pliant body—now he can pay attention to the groans and grunts being spewed directly into his ear and how Red Hood’s sweat dripping from his forehead hits his skin. “Ahhh..D-do it Ho-… Sir-… Ple-ase.” Tim is mewling, clenching his hole against the cock thrusting inside him. “Red-… Pleas… Please.. D-do it. Com-e inside me…”

 

“ _My Robin_.” Red Hood _growls_ like a beast against his neck stilling his hips and coming inside him. Tim mewls at the feeling of being full – _owned by the man he worships. His Red Hood._ He knows that the shudder that runs his body has all to do with pleasure and how he’s crying now, feeling the cuts and bruises on his back and Red Hood’s teeth sinking into his neck with a feral tone. “Mine.” He growls once more, wrapping his arms around Tim’s waist as he peppers the purple bruises on his neck with kisses.

 

“Nnn… Hood…” He says between the tears, reaching out to entwine their fingers. “Please..?” The question hangs in the air as Red Hood presses him against his chest and nudges his jaw for a kiss—the older man kisses like a beast, teeth pulling his bottom lip and then Red Hood’s tongue makes its way between his lips, meeting with his and rubbing forcefully. The man stops sometimes, letting the tip of his tongue run over the pointed edges of his teeth before coming back. _He’s claiming you again. You’re full with his cock, his cum. Thank him thank him_  the voice in the back of his head practically vibrates with excitement, making Tim finally smile and sigh between their mouths. “Thank you.” He says breathlessly, closing his eyes and immersing himself on the blissful smell of gunpowder, blood and sex that clings to them.

 

White lenses stare back at him, and surprisingly, Tim feels at ease, comfortable with the man holding him up, although he whines when Red Hood removes his softening cock from inside him. “Remove my mask, Robin.” He nods, lifting up his trembling fingers to peel of that mask. When Tim’s finished, Jason eyes are closed, but in a matter of seconds they open up slowly, revealing gunmetal blue eyes freckled with jade spots that stare at him with such intensity that leaves the younger Robin dizzy. Jason pulls one of their joined hands away, skimming the pads of their fingers over the skin of Tim’s scared thigh, following to his ass to the pliant hole that flutters over the weight of their digits. “Can you feel this, Robin?”

 

Tim moans between a nod, feeling Jason’s cum slowly trickling from him. “No one will own you like I do. Not one of your metas, nor any of your girlfriends will give you this. You are my Robin.” The younger man nods again, resting his full weight against the armor-clad body behind him.

 

“Your Robin.” Tim murmurs, closing his eyes and focusing on getting his breath back to normal—he feels light, as if all his demons were chased away by the man gathering him in his arms and taking him to the bathroom. The pipes rattle again as Jason undresses himself with no finesse whatsoever, letting his beloved guns and boots clatter on the floor in favor of putting Tim under the cold spray of water and joining him. The Robin gives an appreciative moan when Red Hood starts soaping his back, cleaning up the worst of his wounds and kissing his shoulder blades.

 

Once again, the best thing about Jason is how he reads him like an open book, responding with violence when he needs and love and caring when he wants. “My beautiful Robin,” He says for the last time, planting a kiss over one of the bruises marring Tim’s neck. “My Timothy.” That makes Tim gasp, crashing back from the other reality where he was immersed to the real life where Jason murmurs praises and promises against his skin. “I love you.” He says softly, sounding nothing like the beast who devoured him minutes earlier.

 

“My Red Hood.” Tim croaks back, opening his eyes to finally stare at Jason, gratitude overflowing from his reddened eyes. “My Jason… I love you.” The older man kills the shower, wrapping them in fluffy towels and then takes care of the worst wounds on Tim’s back, peppering kisses over the crisscross patterns he left behind.

 

He conducts them to the bedroom, where Tim lays down on Jason’s chest, feeling the calm beating of his heart luring him to sleep—the voices now are a quiet murmur, drowned out by a heartbeat and the soft breathings of Jason smoking the day’s last cigarette. “Feeling better?”

 

Tim nods, not trusting his voice when Jason wraps an arm around his waist. “Thank you.” He closes his eyes when Jason kisses the top of his head, whispering good night.

 

_He owns you, you are his Robin, his Timothy._

The voice says softly and he smiles, because it’s true.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still lurking at beta-lactamase.tumblr.com


End file.
